


If You Build It in Secret, I'll Help You Tear It Back Down

by Hyacinthz



Series: Show Your Hand [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, POV Second Person, Stan never remembers, everyone else is only mentioned - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 05:03:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20109586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyacinthz/pseuds/Hyacinthz
Summary: Somewhere in Oregon, there's a journal inscribed "4." In the margins of field notes and editorial, the author's penned himself a coded reminder:Don't piss off Wendy Corduroy.





	If You Build It in Secret, I'll Help You Tear It Back Down

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this! I am nervous with how it came out, but I hope you enjoy it.

Sometimes the counter at the Shack is slow as hell, and you sit there buried in a magazine or texting Tambry or daydreaming. And sometimes at work you get bored enough to start putting puzzles together.

Like—not literal puzzles. Who does literal puzzles anymore? Well, you, earlier this week. But Mabel made it for you. You’ll do anything she asks, that kid’s the shit. And she stuck around to help, the two of you never have enough girl time. And it’s their last week here, so yeah. You’ll do literal puzzles sometimes. But you really mean metaphorical puzzles. 

You sort of want to punch this one in the face.

It’s not that you’re violent; axes aside, that’s a misconception about the Corduroy clan in general. The thing is, Dr. Pines has just. He has a really punchable face.

It helps that you’ve thought--idly and not on pay day--that Stan’s face is just a little punchable all on its own.

The thing is that you’ve heard the whole story. Sure, secondhand and in the early hours of the morning. But you’ve heard it from Soos, and again piecemeal from everyone else. Since Weirdmageddon, you’ve occasionally heard it directly from the horse’s mouth; you’ve walked into the Shack to hear Dr. Pines explaining some piece of his past to Stan or Soos or his stupid journal. One time, literally the wall. Like, just the wall. He said it was an invisible wizard, but why would a wizard care about his angst anyway?

You’re not sure Dr. Pines is capable of being sorry enough for you.

Because, yeah. You’ve got a family at home. But a girl can have two families, can’t she? And they all did the literal apocalypse together. As far as you’re concerned, Stan Pines was the only one in town to call that one right. 

Stan looks old, now. And, sure—he was always wrinkly and smelly, but now he looks small. He tends to get dressed and stay dressed, he doesn’t shed his layers until he’s lounging around in boxers anymore. He never puts his feet on the furniture. He doesn’t know what TV he likes. He does Mr. Mystery perfectly, but you can’t really watch him do his thing. He’s _nice_. You hate it so much, that you spend brainpower wishing your boss sat around in underwear more often. 

And Soos, man. Soos. That guy is only 40% himself anymore. He cries a lot. You catch Dr. Pines comforting him one day and you really almost throw down right there.

Not that you could beat him in a fair fight. He’s a stupid, sci-fi old man with a laser gun. But a girl can dream, can’t she?

The kids are in town with Stan today and you just got back from a three-day beach trip with the gang and now you sit, sell occasional souvenirs, and stew.

And Dr. Pines walks right in from outside, backwards. He’s using his back to push the door open and holding a big log in his arms like a baby. The bell jingles. He looks like he got a personality transplant. He looks happy. “Hello, Wendy,” he says. “Good to have you back.”

“Hi, Dr. Pines.” You don’t think he realizes you’re pissed at him. You think sometimes you’re just a little too good at playing cool. You think sometimes that all he sees when he looks at you is a bag of ice. He blinks at you and there’s something like embarrassment in his eyes, like he’s thinking the same stuff. You think maybe he’s never looked at you at all until now.

“Wendy, come look.” He sweeps into the dining room and you go ahead and put a sign up on the register: ring bell for service. It’s been his name on your (figurative) paychecks for ages, so why not? He moves like a magician, like one good enough to be on TV. He somehow juggles the log from arm to arm while spreading a table cloth in one smooth movement. He sets the log down on the table. “I thought you might have some insight on this.”

“Why?” It’s western red cedar, nothing magic but how good it smells. “Because my dad’s a lumberjack?”

He blushes, like actually blushes. He’s so transparent, how are those two even related? “I—” yes. “Yes, that’s why. I want to build a boat and I was wondering if this wood might be appropriate.”

“I mean, it should. Depends on what you’re building,” you say. “And how big the tree is, I guess. It’s hardwood, it won’t rot. But these are everywhere. You should be good to go.” And you turn, you try to leave the room.

“A rowboat?” he asks, and you stop. Because there’s something about it; about not seeing his punchable face. He sounds old. He sounds sad. 

You turn back. You look him in the eye and you say it because you know you’d never beat him in a fair fight: “Thought it was a sailboat.” 

“I need him for that.” He looks down and away from you, down at his hands on the wood. “He doesn’t want to, though. So I’m respecting that. But Mabel showed me pictures from when they went fishing. His boat’s seen better days. And he—” Dr. Pines breathes out hard, once. You think it’s all he allows himself. “He doesn’t want to, not right now. But he had so much fun, I can tell. I can look at those pictures and tell. I want it ready for next summer. Just in case.”

“You’ve got to pay me,” You say. Because yeah, you’re still mad. He looks up, eyes wide behind the glasses. “If you want me to help, you’ve got to pay me. I can do two hours every weekday except Friday until school starts—that’s in two weeks.” 

“I’ll pay double for the extra time,” he says. You know he has no idea what you’re paid and possibly no real earth money at all. “And if your schedule is open after you begin classes, we can continue until the project is finished—if not. Well, Wendy. I appreciate the time you can give me.”

“Okay.” You don’t shake hands. No one says anything about a deal. He visibly relaxes.

Wow. 

You think that it would disappoint Dipper, how angry Dr. Pines gets you. You think that’s part of it; Dipper’s a great guy. He deserves the best from people he thinks are the best. They all do.

Dipper waited most of the summer to meet him. Mr. Pines waited thirty years to get him back.

“But you’re building it with me,” you say. “I’m not doing all the work. I’m not moving all that lumber. I’m not building you a boat. And it’s not a secret, I’m not helping you hide anything.”

Dr. Pines might move like magic, but he’s nothing like a showman. Surprise sits weird on his face; it makes him look younger in a pathetic, wobbly kind of way. “Of course. Of course,” he says. “You just tell me what to do, we’ll do it together.” 

Maybe if you can’t punch him, ordering him around is the next best thing. “We’ll go out to the woods,” you say. “And we’ll mark some trees if they’re on your property. You know the boundaries, right? And you’ll let me shoot your laser gun. You’ll tell me what changed with Stan in the last three days. And from there, we’ll see.”

Whatever happened in those three days, it cracked something behind his eyes like a nut. He looks at you all soft and sad. He looks nothing like Stan at all. “All right, Wendy. Thank you.” He has one hand on the cedar, the other loose at his side. “I’m so grateful he has you—that we both have you around.” 

You look at him.

He explains himself to the log, eyes aimed down: “It’s just so quiet these days, isn’t it? I keep thinking that no one has been nearly angry enough.”


End file.
